Boy listened reverently.
“I’ll remember,” he said.
“That’s right!” And Miss Letty took him again in her arms and kissed him. “God bless you, dear! Try and grow up a good man. You will have a great many troubles and difficulties, I daresay — we all have — but go on trying, — try always to be a good, brave man!”
Boy returned her embrace with fervour and promised. After this they went home, and the end of the week saw Boy back again in the remote fishing village with his mother only. His father had gone away on a yachting trip with a friend as fond of the bottle as himself, and some unkind people said what a good thing it would be if the yacht should go down quietly in the waves and make a speedy end of the two convivialists. Boy was personally rather glad of his father’s absence, as he thought it gave him a better chance to discuss things with his mother. For the first one or two days after his return he was very reticent, he did not say much about his holiday in Scotland, but only mentioned his little friend Alister McDonald.
“Who is he?” demanded Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir.
“Oh, he’s just Alister McDonald,” answered Boy.
“Don’t be stupid, Boy. I mean, who is his father?”
“Does that matter?”
“Matter! Of course it matters. Family is everything. You must belong to a good family for you to be anybody.”
“Must you? Then how about Robert Burns?”
“Robert Burns?” Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir’s mouth opened in astonishment.
“Yes,” went on Boy, dauntlessly. “I heard all about him in Scotland; they’re always talking about him. Robert Burns was a ploughman, and he wrote such beautiful things that everybody, even now, though he is dead ever so long ago, wants to try and make out that they’re connected with him in some way or other. Is that what you mean by a good family?”
“No, I don’t — certainly not!” snapped out his mother. “Robert Burns was a very disreputable person. People who write poetry usually are. I didn’t ask you who Robert Burns was; I asked you who your friend Alister’s father was.”
“Colonel McDonald,” answered Boy, “of the Gordon Highlanders.”
Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir “looked up” his regiment at once, and found that Colonel McDonald was really a very distinguished person indeed — quite good blood, in fact — really quite. Whereupon she graciously approved of Alister as Boy’s friend, and Boy, emboldened by this, said, —
“Couldn’t I go to school where Alister is, mother? I do want to go to school!”
Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir asked the name of the school, and when she heard it pursed her lips together dubiously. It was a famous school and an expensive one. It boasted of some of the finest teachers in England, whose services were not to be had for nothing.
“I’ll see about it,” she said grandiloquently. “I’m not sure I should approve of that school. But, of course, you must go to school somewhere, and I’ll arrange it for you as soon as I can.” Having put the idea into her head, Boy waited with tolerable equanimity. He would write, he thought, to Miss Lettie when everything was settled. In the meantime his mother, in her own peculiar pig-headed way, set to work reading all the advertisements of cheap schools in all the papers, and hit upon one at last that particularly seemed to appeal to her, — one which provided knowledge, with physical and moral training for life generally, at the humble cost of about fifteen pounds — board and lodging were included — a year.
That would do, she resolved. An exchange of letters between herself and the proprietor of this “first-class educational establishment” soon settled the matter, “ for,” said Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir, “there is no occasion to consult Jim. He is too sodden with whiskey to know what he is about; he will have to pay the money, and I shall have to get it out of him, and — and that’s all.”
And one morning she informed Boy of his approaching destination.
“I have managed a school for you, Boy,” she said; “I’m getting your clothes ready, and next week you are going to France.”
“France!” cried Boy, and his little heart sank almost into his little boots.
“Yes, France!” said his mother. “There’s a charming school at a place called Noirville in Brittany, and I have arranged for you to go there. You’ll learn to speak French, which is always a great advantage to a boy. Why, what are you crying about?”
Poor Boy! He tried hard to keep back his tears, but it was no use, and the more he fought against them, the faster they fell.
“Oh, mother, mother!” he said, at last giving way to his sobs, “I did want to be a real English boy! — a real, real English boy!”
Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir’s little eyes almost shot out of her head in the extremity of her staring astonishment.
“What a ridiculous child you are!” she burst out at last. “How can you be anything else than a real English boy? Isn’t your father English? Am not I — your mother — English? And were you not born in England? Good gracious me! I never heard such nonsense in my life! Silly cry-baby! Do you think going to school in France will alter your birth and your nature?”
Boy choked back his sobs and controlled his tears, but not trusting himself to speak, he went straight out of his mother’s presence, and ran as hard as his little legs could carry him down to the sea-shore. There he sat, a forlorn little figure, on the sand close to the fringe of the sea, and tried to think. It was a difficult task, for he was too young to analyse his own emotions. His hazy idea that he could not possibly be “a real English boy” if he went to school in France was purely instinctive, — he knew nothing about foreign countries or foreign customs of education. But he was hopelessly, bitterly disappointed, — deplorably, cruelly cast down. He knew it would be no use appealing to his mother. And he did not know where his father was. Even if he had known, he could have done nothing with that estimable parent. It seemed very useless to try and do one’s best, he thought. Since he had come back from Scotland he had been so thoroughly determined to follow Miss Letty’s precepts, — to attempt by small degrees the work of becoming “a good brave man,” that he had avoided all the dirty little scavenger-boys of the place he had used to foregather with, and he had not even been to see Rattling Jack. He had remained nearly all day with his mother, doing the lessons she gave him to do, and obeying her in every trifling particular, and had been most gently docile and affectionate in his conduct. The silly woman, however, had taken all his loving attention as a proof that he had found Miss Leslie so “faddy,” and her house in Scotland so dull, that he was glad and grateful to be at home again with “his own dear mother,” as she herself put it. And now — she was going to send him away to France! His wistful eyes scanned the ocean and the far blue line of the distant horizon. There was a storm coming up from the north, and the first gusts of wind ruffled the waves and gave them white crests, over which three or four seagulls flew with doleful screams, and Boy’s heart grew heavier and heavier. Presently he got up from the sand, dusting his little clothes free from the sparkling grains.
“It’s no use,” he said, hopelessly, “ it isn’t a bit of use! I shall never be anything — neither a soldier nor a sailor nor anybody. But I’ll write to Miss Letty.”
He had begun to retrace his steps homeward, when he saw a figure coming along the stretches of sand, — a figure that stooped and shuffled and carried a basket on its back. Boy recognised it as the visible form and composition of Rattling Jack and went straight up to it.
“Hullo, Jack!” said he, with a little smile.
The old gentleman turned his bent head round on one side.
“Who be ye?” he demanded. “My back is that stiff with rheumatiz, and my neck is that wincy, that I can’t lift myself up anyhow.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” said Boy, in his sweet, little childish voice. “Couldn’t I carry your basket for you?”
Stiff in the back and “wincy” in the neck as he declared himself to be, Rattling Jack did manage to raise his stooping figure a little at this question, and to stare
through fuzzy tangles of hair, eyebrow, and whisker at his small friend, whom he gradually recognised.
“Oh, it be ye, be it?” he grunted then, not unkindly. “Ye went to Scotland, didn’t ye, awhile sen?”
“Yes,” said Boy, “and — and — next week I’m going away again, — to school.”
“That’s right!” said Rattling Jack, approvingly, “ that’s the best thing for yer! There be nothing like a good English school for boys—”
“But it isn’t an English school,” said Boy; “I’m going to France—”
“Fra — ance!” roared the old seaman. “What d’ye know of France?”
“Nothing,” said Boy, dispiritedly. “I shall be all alone out there, and I don’t speak a word of French!”
Rattling Jack surveyed him for a few minutes in grim silence. The situation appeared to interest him, for he unslung his basket and set it down on the shore. Whatever the basket’s business, it was evident it could wait. Then, partly straightening himself with an effort, he said slowly, —
“Who be sendin’ ye to school in France?”
“My mother,” responded Boy.
“Poor little devil, may God help yer!” said Rattling Jack, with hoarse solemnity, “for ye’ll come back never no more!”
“Oh, yes, I shall come back for the holidays, I suppose,” said Boy, practically.
“Stow that!” said Jack, with a sudden stentorian vigour which was quite alarming. “What’s ‘olidays! Yes, ye’ll come back mebbe for ‘olidays, but it won’t be you.”
“Won’t be me?” echoed Boy, wonderingly. “It must be me!”
“It can’t be!” persisted Jack. “France ain’t a turnin’-out establishment for Englishmen. Never a bit of it! Ye’ll go to France a poor, decent little chap enough as yer seems to be, but ye’ll never come back that way, — ye’ll come back a little mincin’, lyin’ rascal, parly-vooin’ like a bass, an’ hoppin’ like a frog. That’s what ye’ll be! Ye’ll be afraid of cold water, and skeered-like at the sight of yer own skin, and ye’ll never look any livin’ creetur in the face agin. And ye’ll be a dirty, mean, creepy-crawly little Frenchy — that’s what ye’ll be!”
“No, I won’t!” cried Boy, quite appalled at this vivid picture of himself in futuro. “Don’t say I will! I know you’ve travelled a lot, and that you’ve seen France—”
“Seen France!” — and Rattling Jack snorted indignation at the air—” rather! And seen Frenchmen, too! And licked them into the bottom of their own shinin’ boots! Seen France! Yes! it’s a great place for frogs — hoppin’ round, and all alive oh!
‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow?’
Thank you, mam, kindly, but frogs ‘as eaten me out of ‘ouse and ‘ome an’ garden, too. Hor — hor — hor!”
And Rattling Jack began to indulge in those deep, uncouth sounds which he produced as laughter. Always deeply impressed by his own wit, he liked to appreciate any joke he thought he had perpetrated to its full extent and flavour, and Boy waited patiently till his “hor-hor-hor” decreased in volume and died away in a snuffle.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re quite right about France,” he then said, timidly, “because you have been there. But, you see, I can’t help it. I shall have to go there if my mother sends me.”
Rattling Jack laid a big hand on Boy’s small shoulder.
“Yes, I suppose you’ll hev to do as yer mother bids. I don’t know yer mother, and don’t want to. If I did, mebbe I’d give her a bit o’ my mind. What I thinks is this — that the ways of natur are best, and in the ways of natur mothers don’t interfere when they’ve done their mussin’. See!” And he stretched out an arm with a roughly eloquent gesture towards the ocean where the seagulls screamed and flew. “They birds has to take the rough and tumble of the storm and the sea. Born and bred in a hole of the cliffs, they’ve got to larn to fly, and larn they do, and when they flys, they flys their own way — they takes it and they keeps it. And so with all birds and animals ‘cept man. Man’s the idiot of the universe, always a worritin’ of himself. He wants his chillun to be just like himself, and a mussiful Lord makes ’em as different as chalk from cheese. For which let’s be joyful! And when they wants to go their own way, man, the idiot, pulls ’em back and says, ‘You shan’t!’ An’ then it’s more than likely old Nick steps in an’ says, ‘You shall!’ And away they go, straight to the devil! When I was a boy I took my own way — and wal, — here I am!”
“And do you like yourself now?” asked Boy, respectfully.
“Like myself? Of course I like myself! I ain’t got no one else to like me, so why shouldn’t I like myself?”
“I like you,” said Boy, “ I always have liked you. I think you so — so clever!”
Rattling Jack was not often shaken from the cynical attitude he chose to assume towards all mankind, but this innocent remark certainly touched him in a weak spot. He was not insensible to flattery, and the evident fact that Boy did not intend to flatter, but spoke with the simple conviction of his own heart, moved the old seafarer to a sudden stirring of more fervent feeling than was customary with him.
“Ye’ve a good deal o’ sense for a little chap,” he observed, condescendingly, “and I don’t mind sayin’ that I’ve rather took to ye. Now look’y ’ere! If ye don’t want to go to school in France, why don’t you do as they seagulls do, and fly away?”
“Fly away!” repeated Boy. “You mean, run away!”
“Fly or run, it’s all the same, bless yer ‘eart!” said Jack. “Get out of yer little hole in the rock and spread yer wings to the sun and the breeze. Hain’t yer got any friends?”
“Yes, I’ve one very good friend,” said Boy, thinking of Miss Letty. “She’s a very kind lady, and I’m going to write to her. But, you see, if I ran away I should be brought back again — I’m not very old — I’m not quite ten yet—”
“Not quite ten, ain’t yer?” said Jack, suddenly becoming conscious of the extreme youth and helplessness of his small friend. “That ain’t much, for sartin. Wal, look ’ere; I’ll tell you what I’ll do for ye — I’ll give ye a tiger’s tooth!”
Boy stared.
“Will you?” he said. “What’s it for?”
“A tiger’s tooth,” said Jack, solemnly, “takes the owner through the forests o’ difficulty. A tiger’s tooth protects him agin his enemies. Mark that! Take it with ye to France. A tiger’s tooth bites traitors. A tiger’s tooth! Lord love ye! — a’most anythin’ can be done with a tiger’s tooth. Look at it.”
He fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out a shining white object of pointed ivory.
“That come from Bengal,” he said; “an”e as give it to me was what they call a ma-geesan. He could swallow sarpints and fire quite promiskus-like, — seemed his nat’ral food. An”e sed to me, ses ’e, “Ere’s a tiger’s tooth for ye; keep it in mem’ry of the world-famous Oriental conjurer, Garoo-Garee!’ And then ’e guv a screech an’ was gone.”
Boy listened to this interesting narrative with awe. “What a wonderful man!” he said. “And his name was Garoo-Garee?”
“Just that,” answered Jack. “Will ye have the tooth?”
“Indeed I will!” said Boy, gratefully, taking the mystic talisman out of Jack’s horny palm. “You’re awfully good to me! I’m ever so much obliged! And if I have to go to France, I will come and see you directly I get back.”
Rattling Jack shouldered his basket again, slowly and with difficulty.
“No, ye won’t,” he said, dismally, “ no, ye won’t think no more o’ me among they Frenchies. God bless my ‘eart! An’ not yet ten, ye ain’t! Wal, good-bye to ye. I’ll not be seein’ ye agin in this mortal world, — so I’ll just think o’ ye kindly as a little chap wot’s dead.”
Boy’s heart sank, and his young blood seemed to grow cold.
“Oh, don’t do that, Jack!” he cried, “ don’t do that!”
“I must,” said Jack, with dreary gravity, looking a melancholy figure enough as
he stood on the wet sand, with the grey storm-clouds scudding overhead, and the wind tossing his scanty white locks of hair, “for when a child is a child he’s one thing, and when he ain’t, he’s another. First, there’s a baby; then there ain’t no baby, but a child, and the baby’s gone. Then by and by there ain’t no child, but a boy, and the child’s gone. Then, afore ye can so much as look round, the boy’s gone, and there’s a man. Argyfyin’ my way, ye see, baby, child, boy is all gone, which is to say, dead, — for what’s bein’ dead but gone, and what’s bein’ gone but dead? — and only the man is left, which is generally a poor piece of work. There’s wise folk writin’ in the newspapers wot calls it ever-lotion, but wot it is the lotion’s good for, God only knows! Anyhow, I’ve seen a darned sight many more decent chillun than I have men. Which it proves that the chillun is dead. But my talk is too deep for ye, I kin see that. Ye poor, little, skinny, white-faced chap, ye can’t be expected to understan’ feel osophy.”
“No,” said Boy, humbly, “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand. But I hope you’ll think of me just as if I were here. You see, you have given me the tiger’s tooth, and I shall keep it always, and I shall never forget you!”
“M’appen the tooth will do somethin’ in the way of nippin’ the memory,” said Jack, thoughtfully, “ mebbe so. Good-bye t’yer. There’s a cloud just a goin’ to burst in the sky, and ye’ll be drenched to the skin afore ye knows where ye are,” and he turned up his quaint old physiognomy to the darkening heavens, from which already big drops of rain were beginning to fall. “Run ‘ome, little ‘un! Run ‘ome! That mother o’ yourn’ll be down on ye if ye wets yer clothes. Shake ‘ands?” — for Boy had timidly extended his small hand. “Sartinly!” — and the old man grasped the tiny child fingers within his own rough, dirty ones, “ for it’s a long good-bye. Sartin sure of that I am. Don’t let ’em make a frog of ye out there in France, if ye can ‘elp it. Good-bye! I’ll just think o’ ye as if ye were dead.”
The rain now began to fall in heavy earnest, and Boy could not stop to protest further against this obstinate final statement of his sea-faring friend. He put the tiger’s tooth in his pocket, smiled, lifted his cap, and ran, a little light figure flying across the sand, some of his curls escaping loose and gleaming like the sunshine that was now lacking in the sky. Rattling Jack stood still and watched him go, heedless of the rain that began to drift in sweeping gusts round and round him. The sea uprose and lashed the flat shore with fringes of yellow foam, angrily murmuring and snarling like some savage beast of prey. But Jack heard nothing, or, if he heard, he did not heed. Equally he saw nothing but that small child figure racing through the rain over the glistening sand, till at the corner of an old jetty, where the mists of the land and sea hung low like a curtain, it turned and disappeared.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 440
